


To Treasure Life, and Not Let Go

by Unfoldeed



Series: Evil, Cloaked in Green [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (debatably), Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Bugs & Insects, Cannibalism, Canon Expansion, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Gore, Grit Fic, Hurt No Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mid-Canon, Survival Horror, Suspense, tags updated as of chapter 8, whoops did i mention cannibalism as of chapter 8? because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfoldeed/pseuds/Unfoldeed
Summary: Altaïr investigates the city of Acre at night, and winds up in a grueling battle for his own survival.((in which the author uses assassin's creed 1's lack of a day-night cycle to spin a barely canon-compliant narrative))
Series: Evil, Cloaked in Green [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571146
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

A feather drifted across Altaïr's face, and he opened his eyes. The Acre bureau was silent, except for Jabal’s snoring, and no movement could be seen but the shadow of birds on lifeless stone. Black-blue moonlight filtered through the closed screen above him. Altaïr climbed the bureau wall, slid the screen aside, and looked out at the city.

Tiny windows of flame yellow dotted each dark peak and valley of slate and brick. Smoke sputtered heavenward and mingled with the clouds. Altaïr spotted an eagle, only a black dot on a blacker sky, as it glided from one slender minaret to another.

He had always followed where the eagles flew. Now, in his midnight-woken impulsivity, he wanted to follow some more. Alas – the Creed discouraged traveling by night. To rely on darkness for protection is to risk mistaking the face of a target – or to invite the company of criminals, those who lack the discipline to operate in daylight….

He bowed his head, but his gaze bobbed up rebelliously toward the horizon. He had already broken the three tenets of the Creed, and had effectively redeemed himself thus far – with each name removed from the nine listed, Al Mualim had begun to approve of his work once more. Breaking an insignificant guideline would mean nothing in comparison.

The city stretched out before him, dark and endless, promising that not a soul would know. Altaïr pulled himself onto the rooftop. The air smelled thick with human activity, some scents jarring and others pleasant, and each new breath contained its own intriguing meld. He descended the nearest ladder, and from the instant his boots touched the ground, he became immersed in a foreign place, one as raw and unexplored as unpicked fruit.

Hours passed. Altaïr had crested rooftops and delved alleys with ease, as if the sun was shining directly overhead. He used his training to linger unnoticed and spy on the darkest kernels of Acre’s populace – the gravediggers who carried on over their cart of death in hushed whispers, the streetwalkers whose French and English slang stood mercifully beyond his comprehension. He found himself imagining what knowledge was lost to every passing night, what helpful information might be gained for future missions, should he ever choose to explore again.

Another hour brought him to the city wall. The sky remained black, and had grown thicker with clouds. Until sunlight pierced the bureau windows, old Jabal was unlikely to wake up and continue his scribe work. Altaïr could afford a while longer, so he studied the wall, barely lit with braziers that puffed smoke. Where archers and gate guards seemed to proliferate through the day, only a sparse few remained. In their place swirled random groups of cloaked men and covered wagons, beggars picking over unattended corpses, and drunken crusaders searching for a place to rest, or maybe an extra bottle. From time to time, one of the guards might shuffle over to a passerby to ask questions, but a few exchanged coins would quiet them just as quickly. Altaïr traced the path of a particularly swift wagon-puller, passing the gate and the palisades beyond it. There was an aura about this quick-footed one, it gleamed _red_ in the darkness, and Altaïr was too curious to end his pursuit.

Instead, it was ended with the man turned, and threw a knife into Altaïr's chest.

The knife could not have cut through him so deeply. His robes were lined with leather padding and metal plates. Pulling the blade free, Altaïr noted blood on its tip – concerning only for the chance of infection – but another color had mingled into it, something dark and dull….

Poison.

What night remained passed by in flashes. Altaïr could see his four-fingered hand without its bracer, as it left a smear of blood on a foreign arm. He felt his hood torn from him, felt his exposed head hit some surface made of wood. Movement jarred his body, which refused to function as he willed it.

Some undefinable moments later, Altaïr woke to a foul, bitter paste as it was pressed down his throat. He bit, and felt his head slammed backwards into something solid.

“This is an _antidote_.” Garbled English, ending in a word he didn’t know. It was followed by a firm hand, which pushed his mouth shut until he finally swallowed. Altaïr could taste blood from a tear on his tongue. Had he bitten himself?

“Has Satan unhanded you, heathen?”

His mouth had been uncovered, but Altaïr failed to speak. Somewhere in the path from thoughts to words, a blockage thwarted him. He pressed air through gritted teeth, altogether barely a groan. A second voice from further off spoke instead.

“It was the fever, William. You will see that the antidote prevents further convulsions.”

Altaïr shut his eyes, and forgot his surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -my historical knowledge of this time period relies mostly on experience from the game. if i think i'm fucking up i obviously do research, but i'll probably still make little mistakes  
> -i couldn't find any evidence that altair is a fluent english speaker, so i took a guess that he only knows a bit. i could be wrong but i only have so much patience for combing through meta  
> -my goal isn't to break canon. these events are ideally an expansion on what could have happened in between the memory blocks that desmond actually experiences in-game  
> -yes more suffering is going to happen. no i don't plan on making it all better with fluff or anything like that later on
> 
> please comment on this work. tell me your thoughts on what you read or what you're hoping to see in future chapters. seeing responses kinda makes my day!


	2. Chapter 2

In Altaïr's dreams, a miserable old beggar with matted hair threw rocks at his head.

“A few coins! _Just_ a few coins!” Every sentence was punctuated with a fresh strike, another cold throb of discomfort.

“Ask Jabal at the bureau,” he found himself answering. “If the wine hasn’t managed to keep him unconscious past noon.” Altaïr tried to move, but felt weighed down. Rocks had piled on top of him, pressing into his stomach.

“But he doesn’t care!” The beggar keened in her harsh dialect, hurling another rock. “I’m going to starve, and you’ll be dead _too_ by the time he wakes!”

The statement made Altaïr open his eyes, and one last impact forced him from the dream. The woman vanished into an empty floor; the imaginary rocks were replaced with a dark figure, real and looming, who stood with one foot planted on his stomach. The figure held a cane, and pressed it to Altaïr's temple with cruel, impatient force.

“Awaken, student.” Arabic, and yet Altaïr had remembered hearing someone speak in English….

Another strike to his temple. Altaïr struck back, swiping hold of the cane and bucking free of the weight against him. He rolled up to a crouch, pulling the cane with him against the grip of his opponent. The figure was drawn forward, and Altaïr lunged to double the momentum of his fist as it _cracked_ across their jaw. A thin, hot streak of pain traced his forearm as he followed through with the punch, but it did nothing to hinder his attack.

The figure dropped on their back. As they struggled upright, Altaïr recognized their clothing: black, hooded robes befitting only a mentor of the Brotherhood. He drew back, horrified for an instant that Al Mualim himself stood across from him, but one clear look at the face beneath the hood revealed an entirely different person. Younger than Al Mualim, perhaps ten years Altaïr's senior, with black eyes and eerily discolored skin.

“Who are you?”

“I am a part of your Brotherhood, student,” the stranger said. “I am a _leader_ , in fact. But you have not heard of me, have you?”

Altaïr spared a glace at himself. He wore only his breeches, and his forearm dripped crimson. Where the attacker’s knife had pierced his chest, only a scabbed line remained.

“I have not,” Altaïr answered. “Nor do I believe your assertions.” His eyes roamed the floor and walls, all stone, likely a crevice of some fortress. Most definitely underground, if the smell of dirt and mold was evidence enough.

“Of course you do not believe me. Why believe when your ‘master’ never spoke of me?”

Altaïr was tempted to turn and run. Perhaps there was a door behind him….

Altaïr was looking at the ceiling. He understood that he had fallen somehow, but retained no memory of it. He tried to leap upright, but only squirmed; his every movement was horrifyingly sluggish.

“William.” The voice was above him now. “We will have to restrain him.” English again.

Hours flashed by.

When Altaïr jerked awake, it was against the cold pressure of cuffs across his wrists and ankles. His vision swung from one corner of his prison to the other. Stone walls. Dirt in his lungs. No way out – except for a single trapdoor, a single window that did not promise freedom, but at least suggested it.

He tried to draw together his scattered memories. The city at night, which felt like a distant dream in the wake of whatever foul substances he’d been poisoned with. The wagon puller who had attacked him without hesitation. The voices, the fight with a man in mentor’s robes.

Altaïr knew that he had been captured by an enemy. Whether or not the enemy bore any true connection to his own Brotherhood was irrelevant.

The trapdoor swung open, and a European boy in white robes dropped to stand above him.

“At last,” the boy said in English, stooping to pick a flask from a corner Altaïr couldn’t see. Uncapping it, he brought it to Altaïr's face. As reflexively as breathing, he grit his teeth and turned away.

“The master said I should make you drink when you woke.”

Altaïr eyed the robes. They seemed cut and re-sewn to resemble an Assassin’s attire, but the material was quilted in the style of a crusader’s surcoat. The work was makeshift at best.

The boy grabbed Altaïr around his jaw. He wrenched free.

“Place another hand on me and I’ll snap off your thumb.” If the boy didn’t know Arabic, he might soon learn the meaning of _one_ particular sentence. The boy’s thin brows drew together, and he sneered as he emptied the flask over the floor. Only water, it seemed.

“Master,” the boy called, climbing away through the trapdoor. “He’s woken.”

Altaïr maintained his glare on the exit from the moment the boy left to the moment his “master” arrived. Black eyes peered down at him, as unsettlingly foreign as he remembered from their frenzied altercation some hours before.

The stranger approached him.

“Listen carefully, student. You will learn something now,” he said. “Now that you cannot _keep_ yourself from learning it.”

“Let me go. I am not your student, and you are no master.”

The stranger chuckled. Altaïr kicked involuntarily against one of his binds.

“You are ignorant, but I will be patient. I shall concede that I was once a servant like you. Al Mualim plucked me from the chaos of the battle that orphaned me, and I became his willing tool, accomplishing by night the tasks he deemed too dangerous for even his disciples. But through my servitude, I surpassed him in my understanding of the deadly arts.”

Had Al Mualim ever spoken of this man? Of anything that might lend truth to his wild story? Altaïr recalled nothing. So this stranger’s every word was a lie.

“I surpassed the ‘great’ Al Mualim by learning the value of life,” he continued. “By watching men both criminal and innocent cling so fearfully to it every night. Darkness allowed me the chance to play with target’s lives in secrecy. I would torment and dispose of them even as their own families slept soundly a room away. I concocted poisons that made them dance like puppets, ones that stole their breath and turned them blue, ones that rendered them motionless as statues but for the movement of their eyes…all of these, I use with greater skill than any disciple has used a blade. Have you not fallen to them yourself, Assassin?”

Altaïr followed the stranger’s gaze to the cut on his forearm. Every injury that had been dealt to him since his defeat outside Acre had involved toxins that robbed him of his senses. He clenched his fist, wishing for anything but the metal band that held it down.

“William was right to have confronted you. He behaved just as I taught him.” Another chuckle. “Al Mualim obsessed over the perfect placement of a hidden blade. No great accuracy is needed when my poisons are applied. All that William had to do was turn and strike - ” A jab to the wound on his chest. “And now we have you. The _old_ master’s favorite.”

“So what will you do with me?” Altaïr glared at the ceiling, avoiding the black eyes that sought his attention.

“I have considered that question for some time now. Your convulsions were amusing – I almost let the poison take you before even revealing who we are. But I would enjoy _testing_ William against you once more.”

Altaïr squirmed. His mouth was dry, and every muscle in his chest had been pulled tight like laced strings to keep his breath controlled. Failure on his part may have brought him here, but he refused to lose the stoicism that a lifetime in the Brotherhood had taught.

“Assassinating a target who blindly and willingly follows you into seclusion is far too simple for him,” the stranger explained, grinning. “Now that you are aware of the threat – and mostly recovered, I would hope – you may present a proper challenge for him.”

Against every instinct he possessed, Altaïr met eyes with the stranger. He searched for something familiar, something shared by the assassins within Al Mualim’s control. He could not be certain if this familiarity existed, only that he almost hoped to see it. If the stranger’s ridiculous story was true…at least that meant he was more than a mad sadist.

Altaïr saw nothing but red.

“I will let you loose within the fortress tonight,” the madman said. “And I will observe as young William stalks you, and strips the life from you with his poisons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -lots of torture tropes in this chapter, i'm aware. but making this fic focused on gore or so-called "torture porn" is not the goal. my plan is that this is all a setup for a more dynamic narrative, but you be the judge!  
> -william is supposed to be about 15-17. hopefully that was clear enough through description
> 
> is the villain telling the truth? what's going to happen during this "challenge?" comment with any speculation you have. i would appreciate reading your thoughts


	3. Chapter 3

Altaïr kept his neck straight, his head inclined. Any lower and the poisoned dagger at his throat might break his skin.

The madman had pulled him upstairs and through a maze of suffocating corridors, some which dripped water and mud, all which lacked any lighting beyond a few struggling lanterns. The place could easily be connected to some “fortress,” but every hall and corner of it sat silent and empty, some caved in and others stinking of rot. Altaïr wondered if any end to these catacombs existed, or if they burrowed ceaselessly down into an underworld that reeked from mold and filth.

“So this is your great stronghold?” He taunted.

“For now,” his captor answered, pushing him along through a black puddle and over the splintered remains of an upturned barrel.

“You know nothing of our Order, if you believe this blighted place worthy-”

The madman’s knife pressed threateningly closer. Altaïr abandoned his words.

“You should focus. The more you remember of this place, the better chances you might have as William searches for you.”

Altaïr was mercifully directed to a staircase leading upward. Each step took surprising effort; the past day’s drugging – coupled with lack of water and abundance of foul air – had left his senses dulled and his muscles slow. At last the stairs ended, and he stepped into the pale moonlight and fresh air of a courtyard. He opened his mouth at the sight of open sky as if to drink it.

Stone walls surrounded him. Altaïr traced the surfaces with his eyes, seeking a path, some series of footholds that he might scale to his freedom. Windows, reinforcements, jutting bits of stone – all held pieces of a promise that escape was possible, but only if he could manage to climb unseen, away from the threat of a poison knife. For now, the opportunity was impossible to explore, but he was determined to seek it soon.

A figure appeared at the edge of the roof. Tall, thin, pale: William.

“Are you prepared for your test?” The madman called.

“Yes, master.”

Altaïr was thrown forward, stumbling onto one knee and then off it again in the middle of the courtyard. He regretted that William’s “master” hadn’t seen fit to return his armor or weapons; unhooded under the moonlight, he felt completely vulnerable – an _animal_ , to be killed for sport.

“Send him to God!”

Altaïr could almost hear his mentor in that voice. _Go to God_ , Al Mualim had instructed, as Altaïr flung himself downward to the horror of every Templar in view. The inversion to his command sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

William drew a knife. Altaïr scrambled for the first ledge, boots finding stone and pushing _up_. A flash of movement from William, and Altaïr flattened himself against the courtyard wall, feeling the rush of air that warned a near miss. He lunged higher, catching the splintered frame where a lamp had been hung, then a windowsill. He glanced back at William, who had just let a second knife fly. The path would impale his hand.

Altaïr let go before he could waste time thinking further. The knife – coated with a sinister gray powder – bounced off unoccupied stone in place of his flesh, but he lacked the grip to keep himself anchored. Plummeting backwards, the ground met him with cold, unyielding force.

Another flash. Altaïr spun to his feet as a third knife clattered next to him. He stopped looking back, running only for an open doorway. Not an escape, but cover. Mercy.

He ducked inside to find more steps, leading only down. Cursing his luck, he rushed over the stones until they gave way to a muddy corridor, then turned at random, seeking a place to hide. A dim light flickered from somewhere further down, and Altaïr sought it, stumbling through shin-high water and ducking under half-collapsed beams. As the light became stronger, so did his hopes.

Turning one last crumbled corner, he came face to face with William. The boy drew a sword and struck out in one fluid motion. Altaïr dodged backward into the wall behind him, reaching for weapons he didn’t have. William raised the sword, deftly avoiding the confines of the hallway, and struck again. Altaïr had no room to evade it, and so he seized a piece of wooden beam to deflect the blow. Altaïr kicked, sprawling the thin boy flat on his stomach with a splash. Before William had any chance to right himself, Altaïr sprang over him and continued his pursuit of the light around the corner.

There! An opening in the stones, where they crumbled inward to bare the light of the moon and the faint outline of cypress trees. Altaïr dashed through the exit, but as he left looking upward, he failed to note the steep terrain beneath his feet. He tripped, found nothing to catch himself, and tumbled down a merciless cliffside of branch and rock. He felt the cliff give way to a sheer drop, felt nothing beneath him for one long, disorienting moment – hoped for water at the end of the drop, for _something_ that would cushion such a treacherous fall – and watched his outstretched arm meet solid stone with a gruesome _crack_.

Lying on flat ground proved to be no comfort, as the pain of a shattered elbow hit him with brutal intensity. Instinct urged Altaïr to scream, but the madman or his student might hear him. He grimaced open-mouthed against his uninjured arm, groaning loudly but refusing to endanger himself any further. Gradually, as the pain dulled from white hot spears to only spears, he sat himself up and observed where he’d landed.

An old battlefield, it appeared. Broken, charred trees, and scores of bodies, mostly skeletonized, littered the landscape. It seemed the scene had been left behind for long enough that the smell of waste and rot had fortunately dissipated. Altaïr looked up at the cliff, which stretched impossibly high above the wreckage; he hadn’t realized that he’d tumbled and fallen so far. At least William couldn’t possibly follow him down.

At the cliff’s top loomed the fortress. Cold, crumbling – just as much a corpse as the unlucky figures that sprawled between the trees. The madman and lackey must have settled there in the wake of the crusaders’ war.

Altaïr attempted to stand. His legs were battered, scraped raw, and one ankle felt more than a bit twisted, but he managed anyway. A grinding sensation in his elbow made his breath hitch, and he squinted to keep from blacking out. Clutching the damaged arm to his side, he walked through the field of death, searching for whatever refuge he could find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -and so the survival horror tag will become relevant from now on!


	4. Chapter 4

Cold winds raced between the trees and hissed in his ear. Altaïr trudged forward, where the battlefield finally gave way to a riverbank. Bones stood pale beneath the gently flowing waters. He drank anyway, hoping to stop his throat from drying further with every breath.

As the wind grew stronger, he suppressed a shiver. Any unnecessary movement would send another burst of pain through his arm. He had considered trying to splint it with a branch, but the threat of blacking out in the process had discouraged him. If William was going to track him down, he wanted to at least see it coming.

Crossing the river, Altaïr looked back at the fortress – only a distant speck in the night. He resolved to keep moving; he would not be satisfied until it was gone completely from his sight.

The trees on the other side were dense. Through them, Altaïr found a thin trail, stamped with hoof-prints. Following it seemed like the best course of action, on the chance it might lead him back to Acre, and to the safety of the bureau.

The river had soaked what little clothing he wore, and _not_ shivering had become impossible. His arm burned, and he paused to kneel on the trail, holding it still. Sharp, biting pressure had begun to build within the destroyed joint, where veins had broken and spilled their contents beneath his skin. Nausea crept up in him. Gritting his teeth against both pain and the urge to retch, he looked in every direction for signs of a pursuer. The woods were still – his only relief – although he almost hoped to the hear the approach of hoofbeats. Some chance might exist that a crusader scout or a knight would take some marginal pity on him, enough to bring him along to Acre. His lack of Assassin’s robes would paint him as nothing more than an unfortunate citizen, although his face and accent alone might still brand him “Saracen” and earn him a swift beheading.

Any passerby could prove more trouble than not. Altaïr forced himself to move a few paces off the trail, until he could follow it without being clearly seen from it.

As he continued, he stumbled upon a cave. It was nestled further into the forest and away from the path, and the opening looked just wide enough to crawl through. He ducked inside, listening for any creatures that might have made it their home. No noise; only a relief from the rushing wind. The cave was small, but effective for hiding away.

Altaïr could feel himself warming up, and his clothes finally began to dry, but the pressure in his arm was only worsening. He spied a sharp fragment of stone on the cave floor, and held it up, considering whether he should drain the injured joint. Pressing the sharp edge experimentally against his elbow made him dizzy with unease. He pressed further anyway, and felt a thin stream of blood race down his arm. While his nerves still danced with agony, the excruciating pressure, at least, had gone away.

Altaïr chucked the stone aside – but as he did, he heard _two_ impacts instead of one. One from the stone, and one that sounded much more like a footstep from outside. He flattened himself against the cave, suddenly grateful that his white robes had been taken from him. While the uniform was essential for blending in the city, here he was better suited without it.

More footsteps, closer every time. Altaïr tried to form a plan. The steps passed right above him, and then a pair of feet dropped onto the ground just in front of the cave. Thin legs, white robes. So William had tracked him all this way. How?

The boy stepped forward, slightly away from the cave. Altaïr decided not to wait until his enemy had any chance to see him. _Now_ was the best opportunity he would have. He burst out of the cave and sent his boot crashing against William’s back. The boy turned as he fell and landed face up, reaching for his sword. Altaïr lunged down onto him and began grappling for control of the weapon. If the blade so much as grazed him, he knew that the poison would take hold of him, that all of his struggling would have meant nothing.

William thrashed, striking Altaïr's injured arm in the process. Instinct took over and Altaïr drew away from the pain, allowing his enemy to draw the sword and scramble up to his feet again. William raised the sword. No time to dodge away properly.

Altaïr acted on the very next thing that came to mind. He ducked under the sweeping blow and lunged forward, tackling the boy and slamming him back down. William attempted to roll away, cursing with every harsh breath, and Altaïr rolled with him, clawing for the sword handle. At last he jerked it away and stumbled upright. William was already halfway on his feet and turning to run. Altaïr swung for him.

In the last instant before it would be too late, he turned the blade so that the flat of it hit the boy across his shoulders, and sent him face first into the dirt. Another sweep, again with the flat side, struck William’s tailbone with enough force to bruise for weeks. By now his cursing had devolved into incoherent blubbers.

Altaïr threw the sword aside; it lodged itself in a tree trunk. He gave the boy one last sharp kick to the ribs, then sat down across his back, seizing him by his scraggly, pale hair.

William’s pleas were both messy and immediate.

“Don’t kill me!” He cried. “The master made me do this, he _made_ me! Said I was nothing if I didn’t train to become his disciple! And what else could I do but follow him? Ever since the battle, I…”

The boy paused. Altaïr raised a brow, curious to see him go on.

“I was a runaway!” William sobbed. “A deserter! And the master said I could redeem myself through the Creed, become a new man…but I didn’t want to do this!”

“Your master,” Altaïr said, exercising what little English he knew. “Tell him you failed. Or better – you, and I, bring him death. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i love writing enemies/villains that turn out to be total cowards, it's just a thing of mine  
> \- do you believe that william was a relative innocent or not? just curious what my readers think of the situation  
> \- also, medieval medicine Bad. don't try to slice open your arm with a dirty rock at home pls and thanks


	5. Chapter 5

“He said he would wait for me,” William explained. “At the north entrance to Acre.”

Altaïr followed William down the trail, sword in hand, prodding him occasionally. He had already detoured back to the river in order to wash all of William’s weapons clean. So long as they were in a true Assassin’s possession, they would not be tainted with poison. William was left empty-handed. _As he should be,_ Altaïr thought. The child was lucky that after all his offenses, Altaïr had bothered to spare his life. Cutting it short at such an age seemed wrong, even if it might have been deserved.

“Why at Acre?”

“The master and I cart corpses out of the city. That way we travel unbothered through all the districts. And it’s how we smuggle out poisoned targets.”

“You say everything,” Altaïr remarked, “When you know you have lost.”

William looked back at him over his shoulder, his young face red with shame.

“I’d rather not die,” he protested. “Is that so terrible? It’s the reason I got into this damned mess. First I’m expected to go to war and get myself killed in a place I don’t know, against people I’ve got nothing to do with. Then I run away, only for the same thing to happen again.”

“You followed me well enough.”

“For my own survival! What, d’you think the master would allow me to stay at the fortress and kick up my feet when he told me he wants your head on a bloody pike? Then it’d just be my own head!”

Suddenly, the boy in front of Altaïr didn’t seem so pathetic. The Assassin thought on his own situation. _Nine lives in exchange for mine._ The only difference between himself and William, he supposed, was their ability.

Perhaps loyalty, too, he thought with a smirk.

“For a hunter – you are not terrible. Small animals, maybe. Anything larger, you would track it, then you would run away.”

From the embarrassed look on the boy’s face, it seemed that not too much had been lost in translation.

They continued downhill through the trees. The horizon changed from rich, deep blue to pale yellow as dawn arrived. Beams of light began to flicker between the branches overhead.

At one point William looked back, and his eyes bulged out.

“Your arm,” he said. “It’s caked in blood.”

Altaïr didn’t look at it. He still didn’t trust taking his eyes off the boy, and even if he did, his arm felt painful enough _without_ having to witness the damage; ever since the adrenaline from their fight had worn off, fresh, excruciating jabs had dogged his every step.

“I cut it. To mend.”

“But some of it’s fresh. You shouldn’t lose that much.” William turned and took a step towards him. Altaïr raised his sword to the boy’s chest, and he raised his hands.

“Sorry,” William said. “But I’ve got something to stitch it. I could help you, really.”

Some few moments later, Altaïr found himself sitting on a tree stump, while his former enemy sewed his arm back together. Until William pierced himself with the needle first, Altaïr hadn’t trusted him to approach with it – but the boy had obliged, and proved his good intentions.

The stitches had turned out to be necessary. One quick glance at his elbow proved that the cut had split dangerously wide as a result of his last fight; the blood loss was not immediately life-threatening, but not safe either. Even if the boy was only trying to ingratiate himself – in the wake of everything he’d done – his assistance was still proving valuable.

“It certainly looks broken,” William remarked. “That I can’t help with. What will you do?”

“They will help me at Masyaf.” He could picture it already – how long and miserable the entire setting process would be – and just hoped that Malik might not be around to mention how much _stronger_ he was when it had been _his_ arm in the surgeon’s grasp….

He winced as the needle broke through his skin again, and could feel his heart racing. He would have to do better than this.

“Sorry,” William muttered. “I know you wouldn’t have gone and busted your arm, if not for me.”

Altaïr cocked his head, neither a nod nor a shake. He thought back on his first encounter with the boy. Curiosity had struck him at the wrong time, and William had not hesitated for an instant before attacking him.

“Wish I hadn’t done it.” William seemed to read the lingering animosity between them and know exactly what Altaïr was remembering. “The master had told me that any men in robes like yours were the greatest danger to us. To strike first before they had any chance to. But I hadn’t met one of you until then.”

Another stitch. Altaïr's free hand covered his mouth. At least this time he kept silent.

“It’s almost done,” William said.

“Good. Your master should not wait long to die.”

The boy nodded fervently. “Of course. And he is not my master any longer. Following him was foolish – I did it only out of fear.”

 _As you do this for the same reason,_ Altaïr thought.

One last stitch. He felt the string pull through his skin and tighten. William bit off the end and proceeded to tie it.

“I do hope it helps,” the boy said. “I’ve been told that wounds rot easier the longer they stay open. Don’t know if that’s true.”

Altaïr inspected the stitches, careful not to bend his arm. The wound was still raw and bleeding, but neatly tied together. It would begin healing soon. He stood up and retrieved his sword, then continued along the trail. William followed after him.

“With no master,” Altaïr asked. “What then?”

“No idea. The knights will punish me for deserting. The Saracens would sooner take my head off than listen to a word I say. But I suppose being an exile won’t be so terrible as killing people in dungeons.”

“We will see. Walk fast.”

They continued around a bend in the trail, and now the expanse of Acre was just visible against the morning horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -thanks to SetteLupe for your comments :]  
> -all of the convos that took place in this chapter were in english, hopefully that came across, idk


	6. Chapter 6

The trail continued to wind. Each time Altaïr crested a hill, he expected to see the city wall at the bottom of the other side. Instead, another hill would be waiting for them. The city hadn’t seemed so far away; Altaïr supposed this was a testament to its size.

As he continued around another turn, he decided to inform William of his plan.

“You talk to him,” he said. “Walk with him – past the wall. He will not see me above you.”

“You’re certain about that?” Although William’s tone was respectful, his question was enough to earn him a sharp slap to the back of his head.

“Certain,” Altaïr answered.

“…I’ll distract him then.”

The trail narrowed into a strip of gravel as it weaved through a steep valley. Altaïr kept an eye on any ledges above them. The valley’s walls seemed unstable, held up in places by beams and sticks to prevent a rockslide that might block the way.

“If I do it and all goes well…would you let me go?” William asked.

Altaïr found he wasn’t sure. His pace slowed as he glanced in William’s direction. He couldn’t remember the last time he had shown mercy for anyone brazen enough to threaten his life. Letting William run free felt contrary to every self-preservation lesson the Brotherhood had taught him.

“I could,” Altaïr said. The boy could sweat and wring his hands all he wanted in the meantime.

Red gleamed overhead. Altaïr looked to see a figure looming on the cliff above them. Then two, three…all hooded, but not allies; their auras revealed all that Altaïr needed to know.

“William.” The master’s voice. Altaïr turned to see the black-robed enemy from the night before. He perched amid the hooded figures above the valley, brandishing a bow. A beam ran up from the ground to stones under his feet, but there was no time to consider the opportunity just yet.

Altaïr brought his sword to William’s throat in the space of half a breath. Without the use of one arm, let alone his proper set of weapons, he felt woefully unprepared for such an ambush. But he resolved to face it with as much confidence as he could gather.

“Do not move, madman,” he warned. “Or your student will suffer an early death.”

“You did not accomplish what was asked of you, William,” the master said, ignoring Altaïr's warning and addressing the boy in English.

“I was…I was planning it, master.”

“Oh, but we saw you.” The master shuffled closer to the cliff’s edge. “Your brother watched as you dishonored us. It seems you are still the coward who fled the battlefield and cried for a second chance.”

“It was the only way to bring down his guard!”

“And when you had the opportunity to strike, you failed! Aiding the enemy when you could have accomplished your task. You _could_ have been a part of our Order.”

The master drew an arrow. Altaïr held William firmly between them, but drew a step closer.

“The support,” he hissed in William’s ear. “Strike it.”

The boy kicked out and dislodged the nearest beam, and Altaïr was already running back through the path as a hail of boulders collapsed down the valley’s side. Judging by the extra set of beating footsteps behind him, William had also managed to duck away. Altaïr looked over his shoulder for one blink of an instant to see that the master had fallen to the rockslide, along with his lackeys on that half of the valley. But the remaining figures had drawn their bows.

Arrows sung through the air. William yelped, and Altaïr felt a hot spray of the boy’s blood against his back. One of Altaïr's pant legs was shredded as an arrow passed through, missing his flesh by almost no distance at all.

The valley began to flatten out, and Altaïr scrambled up one side, unable to climb with an injured arm but just able to crest the steep grade of earth with his legs alone. He reached the hilltop and slid down the other side, finally out of range. For now.

To his surprise, William tumbled down beside him. The boy was bleeding heavily; two arrows jutted from his back.

“We have to keep going!” He yelled, pointing on, where the hill took another dive. Altaïr followed the boy’s gesture, and he could hear the rush of moving water not far off.

Turning back, he could see one of the archer's heads. They were about to reach the hilltop. He seized William by what remained of his surcoat, and pulled him to the sharp edge of the hill. A churning river raced below it, within range of one leap. But the drop was long, and the water’s depth questionable.

Searing pain split through Altaïr's arm, just above the already shattered elbow. An arrowhead jutted through tattered skin. The tip was dull with a foreign substance. Poison, certainly….

“Jump!” William screamed. This time he took hold of Altaïr, pulling the Assassin off the cliff after him.

The water stung, but the annihilating agony of hard ground did not follow. Waves barreled over them, knocking them against each other as they were ripped downstream. Altaïr took in whatever air he could find, but was helpless to avoid half a lungful of water in the process. He tried to get a glimpse of the surface; only flashes of sunlight greeted him at first, but as he managed to raise a hand and block the sun, he could see the cliff still above them, hanging over a shallow bank that might conceal them from the enemy. If they could reach it.

Altaïr took hold of William and clawed with his legs for purchase on the bank. His injured arm burned, making him gasp more water into his throat, but he pulled further, working every muscle he possessed.

He was halfway ashore. One firm kick, and he was free of the river. William bobbed against the bank, drooling water and blood. He seized Altaïr's leg and dragged himself out of the current, shaking with pain and exhaustion.

“The poison,” William sputtered. “God, I pray it washed out.”

Altaïr remembered the arrow in his arm. With one panicked jerk, he snapped off the arrowhead, and threw the broken piece into the water with an agonized growl. Any poison left on it would remain away from him.

He blinked at William, trying to make sense of the boy’s condition. The arrows that had struck William appeared firmly embedded; pulling them out would destroy the flesh of his back, and might cost him more blood than he could afford.

Altaïr seized one of them anyway, and twisted.

“You never said your master had _others_!” He snarled.

William’s scream cut out as the consciousness drained from his eyes. Injury and exhaustion had proven too much for the little deserter. Altaïr let go of the arrow shaft, panting. He looked up at where the cliff curved over them. No sign of enemies; even if they were peering down, the bank would be out of their view.

Fresh pain lanced through his arm. Some of Altaïr's stitches had busted, and his skin was slick with blood.

He stood up anyway – but the action was too swift. Altaïr's vision went black, and his head hit the bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -surprise, more enemies! curious if anyone saw this coming  
> -probably going to extend this story another 4 ish chapters, maybe 5 if there's some kind of epilogue  
> -do you think william and altaïr will be able to work together going forward?


	7. Chapter 7

Jagged stones raked over him. Or was he being dragged across them? With his eyes half open, Altaïr still saw nothing. No light.

He could hear William. He knew it was William because of how miserable he sounded, groaning and mewling with every struggling breath. The boy’s voice began to echo. They were in a tunnel. That would explain the darkness.

Altaïr felt his stomach contract as if an invisible hand had squeezed it with terrible force. He bolted upright and vomited, animated by natural reflexes in spite of the way every nerve in his body rebelled.

“God help us.” William. Even if he couldn’t see what had just happened, he would have undoubtedly heard.

Altaïr braced himself with his uninjured arm to keep from collapsing. He sought the wall of the tunnel and pulled himself onto his feet – slowly this time, aware of the shock his body had experienced. His head spun, but he was thankful not to feel so nauseous anymore.

“Where…?” He asked.

“I found these tunnels under the cliff. Thought we’d best hide.”

“You moved me.”

“If there’s chance you’ll still work with me…I didn’t want to just leave you there.”

Altaïr's eyes had begun adjusting, total darkness forming half-visible shapes. William’s aura no longer stood out red against the blackness of the tunnels. Instead it was…unfocused.

“We need to keep going,” the boy urged. “As far from them as we can.”

He didn’t understand what possessed William to help him. Now, of all times? This should have been William’s opportunity to leave him for dead, or even finish him off. No sense could be made of the boy.

“You lead,” Altaïr said. A stabbing pain in his head had left him less than eager to reason their situation on his own.

“Certainly.”

As the two felt their way down the tunnel, Altaïr could feel far more than he wanted to. This ordeal had taken its toll on him, stripping the energy from his muscles and leaving raw nerves that had sung themselves hoarse. His head throbbed from when he’d last fainted, and bled down the back of his neck, where a rock had likely cut into him. The pain radiating from his arm was another story altogether. Even worse yet, his weapons had been lost – swept away by the river.

Each new turn seemed to come faster than the one before. William walked on and Altaïr followed in a daze. Hours may have elapsed, but eventually, the Assassin noticed that they had just passed a fork in the tunnels. William had barely hesitated before making a turn; he was picking at random.

“We may be lost,” Altaïr warned.

“Better to be lost than to run into them.”

Altaïr seized William by the back of his surcoat, between where the arrows remained lodged in him.

“We may not get out,” he snapped. “Understand?” If he could hardly remember the path they had taken, he doubted William had any solid recollection at all.

“I…I’m trying to solve one problem at a time,” the boy cried.

Altaïr pulled William back so that they stood face to face, regretting that the boy loomed several inches taller than him. Nonetheless, he squinted up through the darkness, and raised an accusatory finger to the boy’s head.

“You bring us here, only leading us to another death,” he said. “How do you know this tunnel has an end?”

“I _don’t_ know. I just don’t wish to die. If they find us, it’ll be horrible. Maybe worse than if we wind up stuck here.”

“So you would…” _Cringe like a coward. Crawl further and further into darkness until thirst or infection takes you. Evade all consequences and in doing so, bring your own death._ Altaïr didn’t have the patience for words, let alone for attempting them in English. Instead he struck William across his wet face, and pushed him forward again.

“No choice any longer,” the assassin muttered. “Walk.”

Those were the last words spoken between them, until every step became its own labor, every dry breath another reminder that the tunnels’ air was stale and frigid and closed off completely from any possible exits, even as they tried to find a path that might lead them back out. William had alternated from walking with an odd hunch to keep the arrows from grinding any further against his flesh, to remaining bolt upright as his spine began to protest. Altaïr walked with his uninjured arm either braced against the tunnel wall or holding his broken one in place. Shivering had once again begun to agitate it. The worsening pain proved to be the only reminder of just how much time was passing in the complete darkness of their journey.

The tunnel widened out into a small chamber. A dead end. William dropped to his knees and began to cry. Altaïr staggered the perimeter one extra time, feeling for a hidden passage. None.

“We will…turn back….”

In spite of his own words, Altaïr stumbled to a seat beside the boy, grateful for what little warmth a second body provided. William sobbed, and flung his arm gracelessly around Altaïr's shoulders to pull him closer.

“I’m sorry.” A loud sniff. “It…it was such a mistake.”

Altaïr didn’t care what William referred to this time. This momentary pause had been all the invitation his body needed to shut down and sleep. Standing back up to continue their endless wandering seemed physically impossible. So he shut his eyes. He and William leaned against each other, creating a single spot of warmth in the darkness and cold.

Only a moment seemed to pass, until a flash of light shocked the Assassin awake. In reality, he couldn’t be certain how many hours he and William had spent unconscious, curled up in the hopeless confines of this chamber.

Altaïr pushed himself up, grabbing his arm when fresh pain reintroduced itself. At the sensation of movement, William shook his head and leaned up on one elbow.

More flickering, more light. It was a lantern; Altaïr was sure of it – and this meant a person was approaching.

“Hello?” The call was for them, and in Arabic! Altaïr lurched to his feet, thinking for a delirious instinct that Jabal had found him, was rescuing him….

 _No_ , he realized, the voice was not quite the same, and as a man in bright green robes rounded the corner, the idea crumbled.

“Thank God!” William exclaimed, wiping his eyes as he stared openmouthed into the lantern light.

“I thought I had seen fresh footprints,” the stranger remarked. “What brings these young men so close to my home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i wanted to share the music i've been vibing to while i write. SΛUDΛDƩ slays and their style isn't that far off from jesper kyd's ac1 compositions. "victoria" is my favorite personally (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHDeVPUb_8s&list=PLJ9BCBncEwMCvSXUd0bknVkUYGFcQ3eD_&index=4), check it out if you want  
> -so, another new character. any thought on what his background or motives might end up being?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -warning, this chapter is more intense than the preceding ones. i don't wanna spoil anything. all i'll say is i updated the tags. anyway i figure whoever has liked what they read so far will still like this, but i just wanna be safe

Altaïr had begun to forget what food tasted like, but when the first piece of skewered meat hit his tongue, all memory flooded back with more intensity than he could have imagined. William seemed to feel similarly, if the giant piece he had practically swallowed whole was anything to judge by.

“This is only what I had saved over from my last hunting trip,” the stranger explained while they crouched around the light of his lantern. “I regret there isn’t more to give you.”

“You have given us a great deal,” Altaïr said.

The stranger – Yaser, he called himself – had brought William and Altaïr to his “home” within the tunnels: a salvaged tent in another chamber, complete with a bedroll and a range of supplies. He had lived here ever since the war in Acre had displaced him and cost him the lives of his family. During this time, he had learned to catch his own food, scavenge his own possessions, and had even mapped much of the tunnel system.

“How do you feel, children?” Yaser asked, scratching his gray head, and displaying an array of crooked teeth in the lantern light.

 _Awful_ didn’t come to mind for the first time in several days. In addition to sheltering and feeding them, the stranger had seen to the worst of their wounds, removing the arrows and bandaging the holes left behind. The bandages were of questionable quality and cleanliness, but closed wounds were still preferable to open.

“What’s he saying?” William asked. Altaïr translated, and the boy mustered an exhausted but earnest grin, nodding his head.

“We’re much better now. All we would ask is that you guide us out of these passages. My brothers and I would gladly come back to repay you for your help, but I must go to them first.”

“I will guide you, of course, of course! But I worry that you are not fit to leave. The way out involves a rather steep climb, and with your arm as it is….” Yaser threw up his hands.

“I have had enough experience climbing that I might fare one-handed.”

“Oh, but do not push yourself so soon. You were grievously hurt. Both of you were. Let yourselves rest here.”

“He’ll lead us out, won’t he?” William asked. Altaïr's brows drew together, shading his dull golden eyes, as he considered how to explain.

“I feel so fortunate to have found you before it was too late,” Yaser went on. “Too many poor souls have lost their way in these tunnels, or fallen prey to the Templar knights, who build their own passageways under the city. These are dangerous times.”

Altaïr nodded. “Knights, you say?”

“Yes. They dig beneath Acre. God only knows what they intend.”

Altaïr chewed his lip, staring down at the lantern. Certainly the Templar’s digging operation had to lead back up into the city. Altaïr liked his chances of emerging in Acre far better than suffering any further in the wilderness, under threat of another encounter with William’s old master.

“So what’s he saying now?” William piped in. “Can’t we get out of these damned tunnels?”

“The boy wants to leave as soon as you’ll let him,” he explained. William could choose his own way out – or just follow Yaser’s lead. Regardless, Altaïr would be free of him.

Yaser clasped his hands, pausing with a less than approving expression. But something shifted in his gaze as he looked between Altaïr and William, and he freed his hands with a renewed smile.

“I suppose I can take him first,” he said. “In the meantime, you should gather your strength. And please do not wander. While I know these tunnels well, I cannot say how easy it would be to track your footprints a second time.”

At Yaser’s request, Altaïr laid himself on some makeshift bedding – mostly hay and bits of clothing. He had watched as Yaser directed William out of the tent, listened as their footsteps faded into silence. Once he could no longer hear any trace of them, he sat up, and immediately set to work inspecting the stranger's belongings. Only a candle stub had been left behind to see with, but Altaïr felt his way through books and chests and small piles of garbage nonetheless. He even paused to take a closer look at the bandages Yaser had wound over his arm. Through the blood and dirt, Altaïr recognized some embroidery that seemed more suitable as a rich woman’s attire than as dressing for a wound. Perhaps this was only a remnant of the slaughtered family Yaser had spoken of. Or maybe….

Altaïr did not trust this solitary cave-dweller Yaser. The man’s eager smile, his insistence that they not leave too quickly…Altaïr had been taught to interpret these little quirks as signs of danger. He hoped that William might also take caution, but there was no time to worry after the boy who had caused him so much trouble.

Altaïr wished for the use of his broken arm so that he might search the tent faster, but found himself pausing to clutch it instead, as it continued to burn. He breathed in deeply, puffed out a sigh, and resumed his work.

The chests brimmed with clothes, and a few pieces of armor – mostly crusaders’ attire, certainly not belonging to a native man. Digging further, Altaïr produced a small knife, dull and bloodstained but preferable to nothing. He stashed it in the bedding, where he would return if he heard Yaser approaching.

Another chest yielded hope: maps scrawled on parchment scraps, dotted with blue and brown pigment to signify different ways out. Altaïr's eyes raced over the drawings, trying to make sense of where he and William might have already traveled, of how and where he might find his own way back out.

A black-bristled spider ran over the map. Altaïr recoiled to watch as it crossed the floor of the camp, before slipping under a rock. Curious, the Assassin pulled the rock away. Was there a hollow space beneath it?

The stone had been covering a small pit, lined with leaves and more pieces of clothing. A questionable smell was released from it, like fish left in the sun. Altaïr peered in to see more chunks of meat left on skewers. Something was moving underneath them – not the spider, which Altaïr could see perched on the wall of the pit, but something paler….

He pushed aside some of the meat. Underneath was a hand. A severed, human hand, riddled with dark holes and writhing with maggots.

It took all of Altaïr's training in stoicism and discretion not to shout. A small, distressed noise died in his throat as he grit his jaws shut. The vise-like grip had returned to his stomach, threatening him to be sick again – _and for good reason_ , he thought. Leaning back, he swallowed the nausea down, concerned that giving in might cause too much noise, and could even attract Yaser back to the tent.

Dim light flickered to darkness. The candle stub had been spent, and any chance at studying the maps was spent with it. Altaïr felt for another light source. Surely he could find a candle and some means of igniting it.

Nothing. _Nothing_. Altaïr's heart raced, his hand began to shake. He persisted anyway, searching every corner of the tent.

He heard a footstep. Barely the echo of a footstep, just audible past his own unsteady breathing. Altaïr seized the maps and stuffed them under the bedding, then laid down over it in the position he was left at. While his injured arm had to remain straight at his side, he bent his other arm over his head, so that he could just feel the handle of his salvaged knife beneath his fingertips. Hidden for now, but ready.

The footsteps approached, and with it, light. Altaïr needed that lantern; it was the last necessary tool for his escape.

Yaser opened the tent with a smile, and Altaïr could see blood in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -yay creepy stuff  
> -what the hell happened to william? do we even care about william? sound off  
> -yaser is 50 ish and thereby reserves the right to call grown people children  
> -the templar tunnel thing is something that happened historically. templar knights actually dug escape tunnels under acre in present day israel, so i wanted to incorporate that  
> -this story is basically a fever dream (altaïr's not actually dreaming, i just mean the general tone)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -whoops. this chapter is also really messed up. expect violence and don't read if nasty fights aren't your thing

“It seems my belongings are out of place.”

“I was curious.”

“So you were.”

As Yaser surveyed his tent, Altaïr formed a grip on his knife, wedging it carefully between his fingers so that he would strike with it like a hidden blade.

“I hope you did not exhaust yourself,” Yaser remarked.

“If William managed the route successfully, I’m certain I would also succeed, exhausted or not.”

“Ah, but the child ran off. I cannot understand why.” He shook his head. “I am certain I could relocate him. I will just have to take my map first. The way out is simple enough to remember, but searching every passage for him will take some time.”

So maybe the boy wasn’t dead yet. Altaïr would have been surprised, if not for William’s uncanny ability to survive in spite of all his mistakes. The Assassin watched as Yaser bent to inspect his chests. After some rummaging, he paused, staring at the tent wall. Then he turned his neck, stiffly, to face Altaïr .

“Would you kindly produce the map you misplaced?”

“No. I plan to keep it.”

Yaser’s blood-flecked smile returned to his weathered face, and his eyes narrowed into two pinpricks of light in the lantern’s glow.

“You have the gall to confront me. I did not expect this. Certainly not after I saved your life. Do you care to explain yourself?”

“You spoke of losing your family to war and being driven into exile. But it seems to me that your ‘possessions’ belonged to victims, not to any supposed family. Do _you_ care to explain yourself?”

Yaser rose to his full height.

“I am a survivor. I survive here where others have struggled and died.”

“I suspect the others’ deaths are your doing.”

Yaser drew a short blade from his cloak. Altaïr threw his knife instead of striking as he planned, embedding it in his enemy’s hand and causing the blade to clatter to the floor. Altaïr struck Yaser’s shin with as powerful a kick as he could manage from his position, knocking the man forward. Yaser wasted no time in removing the embedded knife on his descent, and plunged it down towards Altaïr , who barely seized and halted his attacker quickly enough.

Yaser’s teeth ground against each other. Altaïr could see his pinprick eyes more closely now; the pupils were dilated, the whites stained yellow.

“I took the hand of the last man who spoke to me this way,” Yaser spat. “Who defied me and gave me cause to harm him. What will I take from you?”

Altaïr slammed his knee into Yaser’s stomach, and was promptly punched across the face in response. Yaser hadn’t budged; several days of constant strain had caused Altaïr's attacks to lose their potency.

“Your eyes are interesting enough,” Yaser said. “When you’re finished struggling, I will have them. Then it will not matter that you have stolen my map.” His grin widened. “Will it?”

Yaser cranked the knife towards Altaïr's face, but was held back by the Assassin’s grip. Altaïr glanced to where the short blade rested at Yaser’s feet, cursing that only his broken arm was free to grab for it. He hadn’t been able to move his fingers on that side, ever since his elbow was smashed – at least not without tremendous pain. But now he would have to try, with whatever grit he had left.

Yaser attempted a second plunge, driving the knife closer to Altaïr's face. He held it back, even as he stretched to reach the other weapon. This scum-dwelling monster would not get the best of him. Altaïr had killed stronger men before.

Just as his fingers grazed the short blade, he was snatched by the wrist, and his broken arm was pinned over his head. A _pop_ accompanied the scrape of splintered bone, as something already damaged was snapped completely out of place.

“Interesting – it bends the other way.”

Altaïr barely heard the words over his own cries. Not enough adrenaline was left in him to mask the damage done, and the damage was tremendous. He lost his grip on his enemy, but covered his face in time to deflect the resulting strike, earning only a gash to his hand. Yaser raised the knife again, but hesitated to bring it down. Altaïr braced for it anyway, shielding himself as much as he could from where he was lying. Defending any further seemed impossible, let alone retaliating. He wondered if he should stop struggling. He didn’t want to face death with any more fear than he already felt.

“Why?” He yelled through the pain. “What purpose do you kill for? Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t like to go hungry,” Yaser answered. He tapped the knife against Altaïr's cheek, not cutting just yet, but the Assassin brought up his arm to keep it away nonetheless.

“You are no Saracen. In conflict, you would have likely treated me just as the crusaders did. Killing you would bring me less remorse than killing a _snake_ for my dinner.”

Altaïr's broken arm was given a violent twist. Surprise melded into agony.

“No! No more!” The words left his lungs, before even a single thought to stop them could cross his mind. Altaïr had always felt that the Brotherhood had prepared him to face death. Facing torture instead felt like chaos in mind and body.

Yaser’s knife sought his eyes. He covered them, turning away.

“Enough struggling,” Yaser complained. “Watching you tires me.”

Altaïr could see something glowing – maybe it was filtering between his fingers, or maybe his vision was distorting as death approached.

“Where did you learn to be so stubborn?”

 _Where_ – it flashed over him in pieces. The training grounds at Masyaf. So many hours guarding gates, running messages, fighting for an inch of ground, another rank, another feather to be soaked in blood.

Yaser twisted his arm again, and all memory disappeared into a white hot inferno.

“Give up, you pathetic-!”

Yaser stopped speaking, and fell forward on top of the Assassin. A wet feeling bloomed outward from Yaser’s chest: warm, arterial blood. Altaïr turned his head free from beneath his enemy, squinting up to see William standing in the tent, brandishing a longsword in one hand and a torch in the other.

“Dear God,” William puffed. “Was I almost too late?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -okay i figure whatever "teflon" coating altaïr still had is gone. was that a good goal to have? probably not  
> -this is also pretty much the ending of the story's second act. part three here we come  
> -trying to make altaïr's dialogue still sound like him through these crazy scenarios is kind of a challenge. but fortunately i've had experience copying characters' voices, so i think i'm managing


	10. Chapter 10

William had pulled Altaïr back up to his feet and given him Yaser’s shortblade. Altaïr struggled to breathe steadily, trying to blink some sense back into himself as cold sweat ran down his neck. The inside of the tent seemed to spin, and the pain in his arm overwhelmed every half-formed thought that he attempted to compose.

“You can walk, yes?” William asked. Altaïr nodded, stowing the shortblade in his belt and stooping to retrieve the map. His hand shook as he held it in spite of all his effort to focus and keep it still.

“Here,” William said. “I’ll hold it. Breathe a minute.”

Altaïr let the boy take the map. With his hand free, he felt his injured arm, squinting.

“So he would have killed you too,” William remarked. “I realized it too late, when we were walking through the tunnels. He attacked me, and I ran. But – I suppose I got _tired_ of running.”

“You found a weapon,” Altaïr observed.

“I ran right into one of the men looking for us. That’s when I decided to fight. Wasn’t easy, but I killed him. Took the sword from him just like you did when…well, I’m certain you remember. Then when it was done, I decided I’d pay the old man back for his trouble. So I did!”

As William rambled on, Altaïr heard the words, but couldn’t move his focus from Yaser’s body, still warm and stained red….

William’s hand found Altaïr's shoulder, felt upward to his face.

“Stop staring off like that,” the boy said. “I’m going to help you, alright?”

Altaïr tried to refocus; somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wouldn’t normally tolerate this sort of contact, however benign. A moment floated out of his recent memory; he recalled threatening to snap off someone’s thumb for a similar gesture.

“You’ve fought through too much to give up any more,” William said. To Altaïr, it sounded as if he was speaking from the top of a deep, dark well. Though he tried to listen, he was sinking anyway. He wondered if what Yaser had done to his arm would render it useless, unable to heal. This thought alone was enough to block out reality.

Suddenly, William’s hand moved back to Altaïr's shoulder, and began pulling him out of the tent.

“I heard something,” he whispered. “I doubt you want another fight, so let’s be gone from here, yes?”

Altaïr staggered after him, eventually falling into step. He wondered if they were going to be lost again, until he dimly remembered the map in William’s hand. Remembered that escape was possible, that they might find some passage out to the city, to the safety and familiarity of the bureau….

It would only be possible if he gathered his thoughts, and tried to help William.

“Some paths lead under Acre,” Altaïr explained. He gestured to the map. “Templars. But – a good way out.”

William slowed his pace to read where Altaïr pointed. 

“Right,” the boy said.

“Lead one enemy to another.”

“Yes. That might work.”

Yaser’s documentation was impressive. Still crude by comparison with practiced cartography – Malik’s work came to mind – but given the cave-dweller’s circumstances, Altaïr was surprised that it was so easy to follow. Reliable, even. Each turn was marked with charcoal at just the right curve, and the Templar’s expansion of the tunnels was clear enough: where twisting chaos gave way to straight lines, marked with a texture that resembled bricks.

As they continued following the map, Altaïr paused to sit and gather his senses. Passing out again would do him no good, and after being saved by William, he supposed he didn’t have any pride left to lose. The boy stood beside him with his sword drawn, watching and listening for any sign of their pursuers. Though the boy was covered in old scrapes and wounds, Altaïr could see the clarity in his eyes. For a turncoat coward, William seemed to hold a surprising reserve of strength.

Altaïr looked down at his arm. The place that William had stitched was torn wide open, if the fresh blood completely soaking the bandage was anything to judge by. The grinding sensation in his broken bones that had once visited him occasionally now invaded every slight movement, every step. Altaïr had been injured before, but had never suffered for this long without drugs to fog out the pain, let alone without so much as a safe place to rest and heal.

Altaïr wasn’t certain if he would be able to stand up again. He forced himself to try it anyway. His legs shook, but he grabbed the tunnel wall with his uninjured hand.

“You’ll keep going?” William asked, his pale eyes large with concern. Altaïr nodded.

“Good,” William said. “Thought I heard more footsteps. So we shan't take any longer.”

One more turn, and they would reach the Templars’ tunnels. Every step felt like another stab in the arm, but Altaïr managed it silently. As they approached the bend, a light glowed ahead.

They turned, and found themselves in an open chamber, easily two stories high and neatly walled with cut stone on every side. One open doorway waited across the floor. Torches burned in the corners, and light – real daylight – filtered in from a grated hole in the ceiling.

“This wasn’t part of the map,” William observed. “Must be new.”

Altaïr noted several pillars supporting the ceiling. The stone forming them was less than smooth, with cracks and jutting bits. A climb to the ceiling grate was possible. Altaïr wondered if the grate could be squeezed past or pushed aside….

“There they are!”

Altaïr and William turned back to see the black-eyed madman’s followers racing after them. Altaïr grabbed William’s sleeve and began a dash across the open chamber, seeking any refuge from the poisoned arrows that might soon assail them. The doorway across the hall may serve as their best option….

The thought was quickly annihilated, as Templars in full armor emerged from that very passage, drawing their swords. William slid to a halt, his expression alight with panic.

Templars on one side, the madman’s lackeys on the other. Altaïr decided that the only way out was up. He leapt to the nearest column and began to climb. With only one hand at his disposal, he formed a grip on each ledge with his feet and sprang up to catch the next handhold. An arrow smashed and splintered against the pillar, and Altaïr looked down to see an enemy taking aim with a second shot.

That enemy was dispatched an instant later, as one of the newly-arrived Templars dug his sword through armor and flesh with as much ease as spearing a straw dummy. The arrow dropped, and Altaïr continued his ascent. His boots skidded on stone, every finger on his hand doing the work of two as he clawed for purchase on the next hold, and the next, and….

A shout broke his focus. William was caught between the two enemies, deflecting one of the pursuer’s attacks with his sword as a Templar closed in from behind him. Altaïr gripped the pillar with his legs alone, drawing the shortblade and throwing in one sweeping motion of his arm. The shortblade impaled the Templar’s neck, sending a spurt of blood onto William’s coat as the enemy collapsed beside him.

“Up!” Altaïr yelled to William, now weaponless. “Climb!”

William took the opportunity the instant he speared his attacker. Leaving the longsword embedded in their body, he scrabbled up a neighboring pillar, forcing his flailing limbs to lift him. Altaïr at last touched the ceiling. The grate was an arm’s reach away; he grabbed it and swung upward to catch the metal bars with his legs. By now William had begun to catch up, unhindered by arrows as his enemies focused on fighting one another. Altaïr hung upside down to offer a hand to the boy. William leaped, grabbing on and holding fast. The boy pulled himself up with Altaïr's body as his only leverage. Altaïr almost thought he heard the boy laugh with relief as his hand reached the bars and he pulled himself free of the tunnels.

Hanging by only his legs, Altaïr forced himself to rock forward and snatch hold of the grate with his hand. William was on him, pulling him surfaceward. With their combined efforts, the Assassin emerged above the grate, and the two sat in the dizzying overexposure of broad daylight, heaving for breath on the ground beside the opening.

“Is it done then?” William asked, staring skyward with eyes glazed over. “Did we…I think we escaped. At last. At last!”

Altaïr shook his head, simply trying to orient himself. Around him stood the gray-blue stonework and slate roofs of Acre. They had emerged into an alleyway bordering the city wall.

“The bureau,” he said. He pushed himself to an unbalanced stand, then stumbled onto his knees. William crawled over to him. In an awkward half-embrace, they pulled each other upright, each attempting to help the other.

“Follow.” Altaïr began to walk, bracing himself against the alley. Dazed as he was, he remembered the bureau’s location; it was practically instinct. William trudged after him.

At the end of the alley, a corpse-carter with black eyes waited for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -another trope i love: people who hated each other having to bond because they're both in a terrible situation (enemies to friends for short i guess). hope i'm doing the trope justice  
> -might end up at 12 chapters, might go to 13 or 14. also a part 2 could happen with who knows how many more chapters. a part 2 honestly depends on if enough people seem interested lol


	11. Chapter 11

“William.” The sickly sweet tone belied a hatred that gleamed in the madman’s eyes. “So you have come back to me. Bringing the man you were assigned to kill, no less.” He dropped his corpse cart behind him, gliding forward to block the alley’s exit. Altaïr and William remained planted, each of them leaning against a wall as they attempted to catch their breath.

“We’re in broad daylight,” William said between gasps. “There is one of you and two of us – and I doubt any passing city guards will take kindly to your starting a fight. You don’t intimidate me, ‘master.’”

“Do you not understand that your failure must be answered with your death?” The madman slid closer, drawing a knife. “The outcome is inevitable.”

He threw his knife in a flash, and Altaïr stepped forward before his conscious thought had time to catch up to reflex. His hand shout out, and his fingers closed around the knife handle, stopping the blade an inch from William’s chest. Looking up, he watched black eyes crinkle into slits, as his enemy’s face twisted with frustration.

“Al Mualim has affected you. No doubt you are some product of the treasure that he hoards….”

Without pausing to listen, Altaïr lunged for the madman, knife raised to strike a single, decisive blow. But his wrist was caught, and the madman struggled forward, shoving him back. On his arm, Altaïr spotted a bracer and hidden blade. _His_ hidden blade.

Another impact jarred them both. William had entered the fray, armed with nothing but his fists. Chaos ensured as the three combatants collapsed and rolled, two struggling to subdue the third. Altaïr pinned his knee against his enemy’s chest, but had to duck away as his own hidden blade was thrust out at him, slicing through his hair but missing his flesh. William seized one of his former master’s arms and twisted, working it out of range of any new weapons, as Altaïr attempted to regain his position, raising his knife a second time. In a sudden show of strength, the madman heaved himself off the ground, landing on William as Altaïr's strike missed its mark. The boy kicked and dodged a third knife with a jerk of his head, and Altaïr at last tore through the madman’s guard, sinking his knife through skin, muscle, and kidney in one thrust. Leaving the knife embedded, Altaïr ripped his bracer free of his enemy’s arm, and rolled to his feet.

William kicked again, and the madman crumpled. Tearing a knife from his enemy’s belt, the boy dealt his own blow, ripping through the carotid artery like so much paper. The madman clutched his wounds, gurgling as death, at last, began to take hold of him. His black eyes locked onto Altaïr , and the Assassin could not help but stare back.

“I beheld your master’s treasure,” the madman said, choking on every word. “And it dashed my mind to pieces. It will…do…the same to….”

Silence. William swallowed, sniffed, wiped his face with a filthy sleeve. Altaïr held his arm, still staring at those burnt-black eyes, now void of consciousness.

William stooped forward, lifting his former master’s body. Altaïr blinked questioningly.

“I’ll set him in the cart. Someone might carry him out with the rest.”

By noon, William and Altaïr had arrived at the bureau. The ladder – typically so simple, almost boring to climb – appeared suddenly as difficult an obstacle as the flat side of the city wall itself. Without a word, the Assassin staggered to the corner beside it, and sat down.

“You said we should reach the roof,” William complained. Altaïr hung his head. He wasn’t certain that he would be able to stand up again, let alone access the bureau in his usual fashion. The pain his broken arm had subjected him to over the last several days was more than he would have wanted in an entire lifetime, and he wished for an end to it.

“You aren’t making me go in alone, are you? If your friends see me by myself – a stranger, a stranger that looks like a _crusader_ – what’s to say they won’t kill me?”

Altaïr tilted his head, almost a nod. Internally he conceded that William would likely behave in some way that would get himself killed. It was rare that the boy made any wise choices.

Altaïr supposed that it wouldn’t kill him, physically or otherwise, to access the bureau through the shop entrance around the corner. Not using the roof access was frowned upon, but his circumstances simply didn’t allow that option.

“Another way,” he explained, gesturing for William to follow him. Bracing his hand on his knee, he pushed himself upright. He felt off balance, and his head was swimming, processing the catalogue of injuries that still screamed at him. Taking one step caused his legs to cross awkwardly before buckling altogether.

“Careful!”

Altaïr blinked at the realization that attempting to walk had left him sitting on his heels, with nothing but fresh pain in his arm to reward his efforts at movement. With a dejected shake of his head, he searched for some redeeming significance to his current state. All Assassins were supposed to know their limits, he had been told. Altaïr sighed, accepting that _this_ was his.

“Wait here,” William said, and the boy disappeared around the corner, just a flash of bloodied robes and matted, pale hair. All shapes began to drift away, smearing into a black void. Altaïr hung his head and shut his eyes.

At an indistinct point in his half-conscious state, he listened to a pair of voices somewhere past the bureau wall.

“Welcome, young sir! You must be in need of well-crafted documents, else why would you have come to visit the greatest scribe in all of Acre?”

Altaïr could feel himself smile. Jabal had always enjoyed playing the part of an innocent salesman.

“Your friend is injured. I brought him here so you might help us. You’ll help us, yes?”

Altaïr's smile turned to a frown at the words _brought him._ The boy could be so obnoxious at times….

The words that followed warped into meaningless drones. Altaïr's head hung lower in spite of his efforts to listen, to think.

His head did not rise again until a hand wrapped around his injured elbow, eliciting a spike of pain. Altaïr heard himself cry.

“By the Creed!” Jabal’s voice, close above him. “By the Creed…”

More smears, more black. Thoughts melted and dripped away.

Altaïr awoke to soft clink of chimes. He stared up at shelves on both sides of him. He was lying behind the counter in the bureau, with his injured arm stretched out beside him. He could feel sweat around his hairline and across his back. Where his nerves had assaulted his senses for hour after hour, he only felt dull discomfort. The mercy of potent drugs, most likely – ones that the Assassins were rarely allowed.

Altaïr wondered if he might sit up without hurting himself. As soon as he bent his good arm to begin leaning upright, all of his accrued injuries began to reassert themselves, stinging like vicious insects. He set himself flat again, groaning through his teeth.

Footsteps approached, and Jabal appeared behind the counter.

“I did not expect you to play the part of a novice so convincingly, Altaïr,” he admonished. “So please, you have convinced me enough. Your impulsive disappearance, the mess of injuries you inflicted on yourself, the foreign boy you dragged right into our midst – all of this is _more_ than convincing. I would only ask you to refrain from undoing _all_ my efforts to help you, in the wake of your idiocy.”

“What?” Altaïr cringed, putting Jabal’s words together at the fraction of a normal pace.

“Just lie still,” the old man demanded. “For once in your life,” he added, huffing.

“Mm.”

As the rafiq busied himself throughout the bureau, arranging his scrolls and boiling tea over a miniature stove, Altaïr tried to compose a mental understanding of his ordeal.

“Is William here?”

“The boy? No,” Jabal answered, pouring his drink. “I sent him with a pair of informants to Masyaf. He will be interrogated. Perhaps not killed, if the master sees some use for him.”

“He does not deserve to die,” Altaïr mumbled, realizing halfway through that his voice would likely be unintelligible to the rafiq.

Jabal left the room, sipping his tea, and returned with a letter in his hand.

“The surgeon will arrive tonight,” he said. “The informant tells me he has set shattered bones with some success.”

Altaïr felt a fresh drop of sweat run down his forehead.

“I don’t want to lose it,” he said, with a glance at his arm.

Jabal set down the note, and turned towards the doorway.

“Would you stay, rafiq?” The words tumbled out, sounding much more pathetic in the air than in Altaïr's head.

“By the Creed, Altaïr!” Jabal stomped over, bending to glare at the Assassin. “Do you expect me to shed a single tear for you? To sing you gently to sleep?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, but the words slurred together in a way that was completely unlike him, and he almost thought he could feel Jabal’s hand brush over him with genuine concern. The hand settled on his forehead. Altaïr could not remember the last time anyone in the Brotherhood had made such a gesture. He squinted up at Jabal, and the hand disappeared as quickly as it had been placed.

“You know this is all _completely_ your own fault,” the rafiq grumbled, seeming to remember himself as he wiped his hand on his robe. He settled on a stool at the other end of the counter, and began inspecting one of his books. So he would stay after all. Altaïr closed his eyes. The blackness of his mind swam with unwelcome images – his body bound in the madman’s dungeon, his arm ruined and cut open, old Yaser reaching for his eyes with that bloodstained knife – unwelcome enough to make him squirm, but he endured them, and the drugs slowly brought him to sleep.

A messenger bird fluttered into the bureau, perching on the counter. Its wings had made just enough noise to open Altaïr's eyes. Jabal quickly set down his book in favor of the message around the creature’s leg.

“Who sent it?” Altaïr mumbled.

“A friend in Jerusalem,” the rafiq answered. Altaïr thought immediately of a certain dai, but knew that Jabal would not likely reveal more, even if asked.

“So, Altaïr,” Jabal said. “How _did_ you manage to hurt yourself so seriously? The friend wishes to know.”

“I would rather not speak of it.”

“Must I fabricate something, then? Ah – I know. I shall tell our dear friend that those beggar women finally had their revenge on you.”

“Fine,” Altaïr growled, and began to tell his story.

When he had finished, Jabal had only one question to ask.

“I may be the best scribe in Acre, Altaïr, but how do you expect me to fit this wild tale on a strip of paper for the bird?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -did i actually break my promise about no fluff/comfort at the end of the story? not sure if this counts  
> -i might go back after the 12th chapter is done to replace altaïr's name with the proper spelling (double-dotted i). my readers are welcome to suggest other edits if they noticed any issues ((update - as readers can clearly see, it's been done))  
> -i think i'm only going to do one more chapter? it'll probably take place at masyaf. unless people want an extra chapter in between which would detail more of altaïr's recovery  
> -also i'm in the brainstorming stage for a part 2. i'm trying to think of something that would inspire me enough to write another series of chapters. not sure yet


	12. Chapter 12

Altaïr returned to Masyaf, guiding his horse with one hand as his injured arm remained splinted and secured across his body. The surgeon’s work, though excruciating, had spared him from amputation, and Jabal’s brusque but effective care had left him healthy enough to depart after only a couple of days. Altaïr had wasted no time leaving Acre behind – having his wounds dressed, let alone being bathed by the irritable old rafiq, was an experience that did not bear repeating.

Passing through the gates was always a welcome experience, and Altaïr couldn’t count the times that he’d doubted seeing them again. Arriving in the wake of so many brutal experiences was euphoric, lessened only slightly by the judging stares of the gate guards as they took note of his arm. He returned the stares for only a moment, refocusing on the walk ahead, and the fortress awaiting him above Masyaf.

The streets were always comforting in their sameness, their stability. Altaïr never had to fear the unrest that pervaded the other cities, the stewing paranoia that would have guards clutching their swords and glaring into the crowds. Never did he have to concern himself with picking apart shadows lest they harbor a waiting Templar. The people of Masyaf followed a routine, respected one set of laws, lived beneath one Order’s banners. As much as Altaïr sometimes relished the chaos that accompanied his work, the predictability of home was still a comfort to him.

One oddity stood out, Altaïr noticed, as he passed under the fortress wall: a boy with pale hair was replacing a fencepost beside the training area.

“William.”

“Altaïr!” The boy sprang up, and then stooped to bow just as quickly, spluttering something unintelligible. Altaïr realized, a few moments later, that it was probably the boy’s best attempt at an Arabic greeting.

“They kept you,” the Assassin remarked, failing to contain a smirk.

“They did!” A nervous laugh. “They surely did not trust me for some time – not that I would blame them. I was held up in this dungeon for days, and I thought they might have my head cut off after all. But then a letter arrived from the old man at your bureau, and they realized I’m not an enemy.”

“They gave mercy.”

William nodded hastily, and continued to hammer in the new post. “As of yesterday, I’m a servant here. I’m not permitted to leave, so perhaps I’m still a prisoner by most accounts. I wouldn’t leave regardless, of course.”

“Not a ‘deserter’ now?”

“Certainly not,” he laughed. “They threatened me more than enough about it – said they would throw me off a bloody cliff if I so much as step out that gate.” He gestured at the archway Altaïr had just walked through.

“Regardless of that,” the boy added, straightening up, “I was told if I prove myself, I might not have to be a servant forever. Training will probably kill me, they say. But they want a man who can pass for a crusader. Maybe that would be me.”

Altaïr couldn’t help but laugh. This boy, becoming a part of the Brotherhood…. So Rauf’s work would never end after all.

“They are right – on one statement: you will ‘probably’ die.”

William sighed, cocking his head.

“And you would fight for the Order? Kill crusaders?” Altaïr asked.

“Hard to become much more of a traitor than I already am,” William said. “So I suppose I should learn to be the sort of traitor who wins his battles. If they’ll let me try it.”

Altaïr patted the boy’s shoulder.

“Learn, then. If you may. Safety and peace, William.”

Altaïr looked at the boy, recalling the mess of trials they had faced as unwitting partners. Throughout those trials, he had never understood whether to trust William, whether some of his actions redeemed the others. The Brotherhood would know best, Altaïr decided – they could sort out the boy’s character, even if he hadn’t succeeded in doing so.

Altaïr walked off, ascending the path that hugged the fortress wall. He considered what to say, should Al Mualim ask to speak with him. The Mentor was not expecting him – Altaïr's main purpose in visiting Masyaf was to replace the equipment he’d lost – but if they spoke, he wanted to ask about the madman. Questions multiplied in his head.

He turned away from the open doors, seeking the passage that would lead him to the resident blacksmith. Hurling his inner thoughts at Al Mualim rarely benefited him, so he would avoid it as much as he could bear to. His path led him to the top of the fortress walls, where he paused for a moment, allowing his arm a break from the movement that jostled it.

Sitting at a gap in the crenulations, his view of the town and surrounding hills was perfect. Eagles traced circles in the sky, shading the sun from his eyes in flickering instants.

A patch of color caught his attention. It moved between the market stalls in the town below, weaving among specks of people. A bright shard surrounded in the dusty tones of the city. Bright green.

Green robes. _Yaser_. Altaïr blinked, swiped his eyes. All sight of that green patch was lost, as if it had never appeared. As if the monster William had struck down in the tunnels could never possibly have followed him.

But the Assassin saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i can't believe it's over aaaaaaa  
> -i'm writing a part 2 as if the ending didn't make that obvious enough  
> -in order to hopefully reel in decent feedback, i'll probably be much slower about posting each chapter of part 2. hopefully long-term i'll get more readers invested, but we'll see (ac1 is from 2007 so honestly i'm thankful that i had anyone's interest)  
> -on that note, people who commented and who were generally supportive: i appreciate you !

**Author's Note:**

> -my historical knowledge of this time period relies mostly on experience from the game. if i think i'm fucking up i obviously do research, but i'll probably still make little mistakes  
> -i couldn't find any evidence that altair is a fluent english speaker, so i took a guess that he only knows a bit. i could be wrong but i only have so much patience for combing through meta  
> -my goal isn't to break canon. these events are ideally an expansion on what could have happened in between the memory blocks that desmond actually experiences in-game  
> -yes more suffering is going to happen. no i don't plan on making it all better with fluff or anything like that later on
> 
> please comment on this work. tell me your thoughts on what you read or what you're hoping to see in future chapters. seeing responses kinda makes my day!


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